THE ONE YOU CANNOT HAVE (2 page)

Chapte
r
2

Shruti

‘It would be nice to spend Diwali with my folks, like last year,’ declares Rishabh as he enters the flat and throws down his laptop bag in the drawing room, on the carpet, like he always does.

It irks me today though, how casually he does it. I have told him several times that I don’t want that bag in the middle of the drawing room. Can’t he see how house-proud I am, for God’s sake? And how well I have done up the apartment? Our apartment is tiny (all of 900 square feet), which is supposedly ‘okay’ by Mumbai standards. For a person who has spent all her life in Bangalore and has grown up in a large bungalow, this 900-square-foot matchbox is hard to get used to. Whenever I complain that we do not have enough space, Rishabh never fails to remind me that we live in Lokhandwala Complex in Andheri, which supposedly is one of the nicer suburbs.

‘Rishabh—please don’t throw your bag down on the carpet. How can you just leave it in the middle of the room like that? How many times do I have to remind you?’ I am annoyed now. His bag is such an eyesore. But he is oblivious to how out-of-place it looks.

‘Sorry, baby. I forgot. I will take it inside later,’ he says as he switches on the TV and flips channels.

I sit beside him, my eyes still on the bag. I wait for him to pick it up, my irritation growing with each minute. But Rishabh shows no signs of budging.

‘Do we have orange juice? Get me some, na,’ he says as he slumps further into the sofa, fully engrossed in a cricket match now, which is a replay of a test match between India and Australia. What men find fascinating in a match of which you already know the results, I don’t know. And now he wants me to get him orange juice too.

I grit my teeth and do not respond.

He looks at me and realises I am angry.

‘
Arey
—why do you always make a fuss? I will put it away when I get up. I told you, right.’

‘You never do. It always lies there till
I
put it away.’

‘That is because you put it away before I get up. You never give me a chance.’

‘I like the house clean. Look how well I have done it up.’

I have picked blue and white linen curtains. They contrast beautifully with the white futon and cream sofas that one can sink into. The carpet from Fab India is sea-blue and it goes well with the curtains. The whole effect is modern, plush, comfortable and luxurious, giving the room the illusion of spaciousness. And there is Rishabh’s ugly bag right in the middle of it all.

I cannot bear the sight of it anymore. I jump up and carry his bag and place it inside the closet in the spare room which doubles as a guest bedroom, which is where he should have
kept it in the first place.

‘See? You never give me a chance. I would have taken it,’ he says, amused.

I don’t smile back. I go to the fridge and pour the juice and hand it over to him.

‘You are such a sweetheart. I love you, baby,’ he says as he pulls me towards him and motions for me to sit in his lap. I sit next to him and find my anger slowly dissipating. It is hard to be angry with Rishabh for long. He is an amiable guy, most of the time. He doesn’t get ruffled like me. I tend to flare up in an instant but I also cool down very fast. Rishabh, however, is always calm.

In the time that we have been married, he has lost his temper only once. It was with his office colleague. Then, too, he had not raised his voice. Just the steel in his voice and his ice-calm manner as he expressed exactly what he felt without mincing words, had given me the jitters.

Rishabh puts his right arm over my shoulders and draws me to him, as he holds his juice in the other hand and sips it. I am bored with cricket and I want to flip channels. His mobile rings and when he mutes the television to answer it, I get the perfect opportunity to flip to my favourite music channel.

‘Yeah—schedule it for tomorrow. Noon. In the morning I am meeting two others,’ I hear him say on the phone. ‘And is that a he or a she?’ he asks. He listens to the reply. ‘Oh yes, I had presumed Aman is a guy, but I had a doubt as I thought you said “she”. Anyway I will see her tomorrow,’ he says as he hangs up.

I have frozen on hearing the name Aman. I don’t even notice when Rishabh grabs the remote from my hand and changes the channel back to the cricket match.

The name Aman still has the power to set my heart racing and give me goosebumps. I have a hundred thousand memories associated with Aman. Indelible memories. After all, four years of one’s life is considerable time to spend with someone and even today, after nearly two years of my marriage to Rishabh, it takes little to trigger memories of our time together.

I think of how when I would make the morning coffee, I would text Aman nonstop. I would go on till the buzzing phone woke him and he replied to me. I think of the silly little code words we had which made sense only to both of us. I think of how I had teased him about his name. I had told him that he was just A-man. He had replied that for me he might have been just A-man, but for him, I was his whole world. I had kissed him then. He had held me that day, as it rained outside and we had sat listening to the sound of raindrops on the window panes. I think of what an impossibly wonderful relationship it was. Suddenly, without warning, I am filled with a deep sense of longing. A sense of loss. A sense of despondency and helplessness.

And even though my husband’s arms are around me and I am resting my head on his shoulders, as he absently strokes my hair, his brow knitted in deep concentration watching his cricket, I realise I am a thousand miles away. I am in a different place. I am in a time when nothing mattered to me except Aman.

I continue sitting there with Rishabh till he asks me if I have made dinner or whether he should order Chinese takeaway, his favourite meal. It takes me a few minutes to comprehend his query.

Finally, I tell him to choose and we end up walking up to a restaurant nearby called Wang’s Kitchen. The main road near Lokhandwala has a lot of eateries and we are spoilt for choice.

I have to force myself to concentrate on what Rishabh is saying during the meal. He tells me that he is expanding his team and is conducting interviews to hire a new person. I am glad that he loves his job at Club Happiness, a holiday and resorts company. His rise in his workplace has been meteoric, and he now has a team of six people working under him. He tells me that he has scheduled three interviews for tomorrow.

‘I know, I overheard your conversation,’ I say.

‘Oh did you? I am interviewing someone called Aman who I presumed was a guy. Turns out it is short for Amandeep and it’s a lady. Such a funny name,’ he says.

‘No, I like the name. It is nice,’ I say, to my own surprise.

‘I didn’t know you liked Punju names. Next you will tell me you like Baljeet,’ he teases.

I refuse to take the bait. Also I don’t want to elucidate on my fascination for the name ‘Aman’. I have never mentioned Aman to Rishabh and I don’t intend to start now.

‘So who are the others you are interviewing? Are they any good?’ I ask him, cleverly changing the topic as the waiter serves us soup.

‘Look promising. Let’s see,’ he says.

He asks me about work and how my day was.

I tell him that a commercial vehicles manufacturing company has signed a memorandum of understanding with our finance division for their new range and I have to prepare a press release for the same. I also talk about how I have to chase journalists to get them to cover it.

‘You know, Club Happiness truly needs some serious PR talent like you,’ he says.

‘Hire me. Do you want to interview me?’ I smile.

‘It is definitely a possibility, Ms Shruti. Now, where do you see yourself in five years?’ he asks.

‘In a bigger, better bungalow in Bangalore as I plan to relocate. Who wants to stay in overcrowded Mumbai, where flats are the size of a matchbox?’ I reply, smartly.

‘Hmmm. That is a possibility. Club Happiness does have a branch in Bangalore. If we offer you a position there, would you join us?’ he asks.

‘Shut up and make it happen instead of showing me some dreams. I am not your woolly-eyed client whom you can sell a travel package as a holiday of a lifetime,’ I tease him back.

‘Ouch. That is below the belt. We don’t fool our clients.’

‘Yeah, you only fool your wife.’

‘The customer is not an idiot, she is your wife,’ he says, quoting David Ogilvy, the ad-man I admire immensely. I had written a paper on him in the final year of my PR and Advertising course. Naturally, I have studied all the books he has written.

‘Ogilvy also said, “The best ideas come as jokes. Make your thinking as funny as possible” and right now you aren’t being funny Mr Rishabh Prasad, just annoying,’ I say. Rishabh smiles.

‘See, this is why I love you. You speak your mind and are so clever,’ he says.

I sit in silence and sip the soup. He does not know that I don’t always speak my mind and I am happy to let it be this way. There are some things best left buried. Like past memories that creep up on you.

When we have sex that night, I am slightly more aggressive than usual. I kiss Rishabh with ferocity. I can see he is taken aback by this slight shift in my style but he quickly recovers and kisses me back with equal passion.

Later as I fall asleep, I can’t help thinking that it is the best sex we have had in a long, long time. And all through it I had only been thinking of Aman.

Chapte
r
3

Aman

Preserving keepsakes and memories when a relationship is over is a bad idea. But the sentimental fool that I am, I just couldn’t bear to throw them out. Perhaps I have held on to them in the hope that it isn’t over. Perhaps a small part of me has a tiny bit of hope that Shruti and I
might
get back together someday. Now, strewn all across the floor, these symbols of our love stir emotions that are hard to bear.

Mark looks at me questioningly as if to say, ‘Uh-oh’, and then looks at the scattered contents. He probably guesses their significance, but he is too English and too polite to show any emotion. I pick up a handmade book which lies open at a photograph of Shruti and me smiling into the camera. I am hugging her from behind and my face nestles in her shoulder. Shruti had made a book of memories for me which was a record of every single date we had gone on. She had made this scrapbook painstakingly, by hand, filled it with photos, the bus-tickets of the rides we had taken together, especially that weekend trip to Mysore, the restaurant bills and tickets to even the house of horrors we had visited, which had scared her witless. Shruti was such a romantic—every little detail mattered to her. She had taken almost a year to put this book together and had given it to me on my birthday. Perhaps her sentimentalism had rubbed off on me. I don’t know why it is, but I cherish this book. This was the first time ever that someone had created something so beautiful, exclusively for me. It was like a precious phase of our lives was captured in these pages. And it is so painful now to even look at it.

I gather it up hurriedly and close it.

There is also a beautiful wooden statue of a cat that she had got for me. I had once told her I liked cats but had never had one as a child as my mother was working and there simply wasn’t time for luxuries like a pet. There is a gold-plated ring studded with zircon stones which I had given her. She had returned it when she left me. What could I do with it? I couldn’t take it back to the store. There is a bottle of Versace cologne. I just couldn’t bear to use it after she had walked out. And then there are at least about eighty cards. Shruti was artistic and her hobby was card-making. She would make these cards for the smallest occasion and ‘surprise’ me. She would spray it with the perfume she used—Eternity by Calvin Klein. Even now, I get a whiff of it as I pick up each card. The smell used to drive me insane. I have carefully kept every single one. As I gather them one by one and put them back into the box, each one feels like a cold sharp knife plunged into my heart. There is a blue and white striped T-shirt which she had bought for me. It was a size too small and I could neither wear it nor bear to give it away. There is a Calvin and Hobbes book which she gave me when I had told her Calvin was my favourite character. There is a wallet—an expensive one from Hidesign which she had bought for me with her first salary, a mobile phone cover which I had used for a while (the inner flap still has her picture in it), and a Sheaffer pen.

These are what is left of the four happiest years of my life. The pain in seeing the physical evidence of something that no longer exists except in my memories, is excruciating.

There is a lump in my throat as I pick up everything hurriedly and shove it back into the suitcase.

‘Are you okay, mate?’ asks Mark, his eyes full of concern.

I nod.

But I am not okay.

‘Do you need a drink?’ he asks and I nod again.

I am unable to speak. I carry the suitcase to Mark’s car and place it with the rest of my luggage. We sit in silence as Mark drives us both to Coach and Horses, one of our regular haunts.

Mark orders a beer for himself and, without asking, a whisky for me. I don’t protest. Just by looking at my ashen face, he has figured it all out.

I am still trying to compose myself. But the truth of all that Shruti and I meant to each other has returned to haunt me. I had shut out all the memories of our love in a box. Literally. But today the illusion that I have healed and moved on has been shattered. After two years, the wounds have opened up again and made me realise that what has healed was just the surface. Underneath it is still raw, it is still painful. Lacerating. Unbearable.

‘I gather it was hard then, eh?’ says Mark.

Before I can reply, my phone rings. When I see the caller’s name flashing, I excuse myself and step outside the pub to take the call. The cold English air hits my face and I slide the sleeve of my jacket over my hand.

‘Hey, Vikram, how are you? And the kids and Dipika?’ I greet him, trying to make my voice as normal as I can. This call from him is a welcome distraction.

‘Hey, Aman, all of us are waiting eagerly. You arrive on Saturday morning, right?’

‘Yes. I land in Mumbai and take the first flight to Bangalore,’ I confirm.

‘Good good, we’re all waiting for you. Ria and Reema keep asking how many days are left for you to arrive. I am tired of answering them,’ he says and I smile.

Vikram insists I stay with them, even though we both know that my office will accommodate me in the company guesthouse. I can never say no to Vikram. He has been a pillar of strength in my worst moment. I think of the time two years ago when I was so broken. It was he who goaded me to get out of India. It would do me good, he had said. He had completely understood my situation. He had, in his quiet way, given me a much-needed push, without even mentioning her name. I was too devastated at that time to think clearly, but he had actually done me a huge favour. It helped heal, to some extent, my wounded soul. Right from the days that I had joined as a management trainee, reporting to Vikram, he seemed to know exactly what I needed and had managed, as always, to steer me towards it.

The last time I was in India, Dipika had announced very solemnly that I was to be godfather to Ria and Reema.

‘Godfather? As in Mario Puzo?’ I had blinked.

Dipika had given me a mock-angry stare as if to say ‘stop fooling around’. I actually hadn’t been. I had no idea what being godfather to two little girls aged six and four meant. Vikram had shot me a warning look to comply. I did so and pretended to understand that if anything were to ever happen to her and Vikram, I would officially be responsible for the girls. I found it all too far-fetched, but had gone along just to please Dipika.

‘Here, speak to Dipika. She is clamouring to take the phone from me,’ says Vikram and Dipika comes on the line.

Dipika wants to know what time I will arrive and whether or not I will join them for breakfast. Dipika is a very attractive woman and has a perfect, sculpted body. It is hard to not notice the sensuality she exudes without even being aware of it, which all the more adds to her appeal. God, even her voice is sexy. If she weren’t Vikram’s wife, and if I did not have such a good equation with him, I would have hit on her for sure.

‘No, no. I will arrive by mid-morning, so will join you for lunch instead,’ I answer.

‘Great. Looking forward then. All of us, especially the girls, are waiting to see you,’ she says as she hangs up.

I step back into the warmth of the pub, glad to be out of the cold.

I join Mark and see that my whisky has arrived. I realise that I haven’t spoken about Shruti to anybody. Not even to Vikram, even though he had asked me about it.

But now that Mark has seen the contents of the box and my reaction to it, I feel I owe him some kind of explanation.

‘You know, she is the reason I moved to Norwich,’ I tell Mark.

‘Whoa, that
is
intense,’ he says.

I am not sure if he even realises what a relationship actually means. After all, even though he claims Eva is his girlfriend, he has had several flings with other women. I doubt Mark will understand something so deep, so pure and so genuine. I had been madly in love with Shruti when she walked out. Of course, she was in love with me too. Undoubtedly. How can women do this—be in love with one guy and marry another? I don’t know.

For me, Shruti was truly ‘The One’ and I do not know if I will ever meet anyone like her. No one, just no woman, matches up to Shruti.

I do not know how to convey all this to Mark and I don’t think any of it will even make any sense to him.

‘So what happened then? Only if you want to talk about it, that is,’ says Mark.

‘I don’t think her parents approved of me,’ I say.

‘What do you mean her parents didn’t approve? Why? Was it like you did something? Or weren’t you rich enough for them?’ Mark is genuinely puzzled.

‘No, we are from different communities. She is south Indian and I am north Indian. We have a caste system, and marriages outside the community aren’t approved by elders,’ I try to simplify the Indian scenario to Mark. In India, it is not just two people getting married, it is two families connecting. Everybody is involved in a wedding, unlike in the UK, where the bride and groom decide and plan everything themselves and even foot the bill for their wedding, and only the closest family and friends are invited.

Mark had asked me about arranged marriages in India (all foreigners I have met have—they are fascinated by the concept) and I had explained to him that it is just like setting up a date with a prospective partner, only in this case it is set up by parents. He had found it strange and shocking that an adult should allow his or her parents or relatives to choose a life partner for him or her. But I had not gone into the dynamics of the caste system and how it worked.

‘So is that a problem then? Don’t people from different communities get married in India?’ asks Mark, now curious to know.

‘In cities they do. Urban India is very different from rural India. In the villages it is still frowned upon,’ I answer.

‘Oh—so was she from a village then?’

I smile in response, trying to picture Shruti as a village belle.

‘Of course not. It was complicated, Mark. Her mother got breast cancer and they did not know if she would make it. Her parents had been against me from the start. She broke up with me as her parents wanted her to get married to someone of their choice. I hope she is happy,’ I say as I take a large sip of whisky.

Mark nods and we sit in silence finishing our drink. It is hard for me to even think about Shruti, let alone speak to Mark about her. Mark senses it and changes the topic deftly to the upcoming football game. Norwich has a great football team and they are playing against Everton on Friday. He talks about how much he is looking forward to it. I try my best to feign interest but Shruti has exploded back into my life with the power and force of a storm and I am reeling under the impact of the resurrected memories.

Mark drops me to my hotel and the check-in formalities are completed in no time. Once I am in my room, the black suitcase with memories of Shruti calls out to me. I don’t want to revisit the past. It is sheer torture to do so.

But I am powerless. It is as though an invisible force is pulling me towards it. One part of me badly wants to throw this suitcase out. It is a dead relationship. It is over and she is now married to another guy, I remind myself. But another part of me wants to relive what I had with her, which is something that nobody can snatch away from me.

I walk up and down the length of the room. The room overlooks River Wensum and today even the breathtaking view of the river and the cobbled walkway beside it, lined with weeping willow trees and flower beds, fails to distract me. I see a young woman and her child walking along the river path. The child stops to feed the ducks that swim alongside. The woman watches and smiles at the child. I wonder if she is a single mother. Then I see a man walk up to both of them and kiss the woman on the lips. He puts his arm around her shoulders and says something to the child who runs ahead in glee as they watch indulgently. The happy scene sends a fresh wave of agony through me as I recall how Shruti had laughingly talked about the children we would have, how many and what we would name them. We had sat watching the placid waters of the Kabini river, near Bangalore, on one of our dates, she leaning against me. I had laughed in response and said that I wanted two daughters, and she said she wanted a girl and a boy, a girl first preferably. We had so many plans—Shruti and I. And now all I have are memories and a boxful of painful reminders of the one that I cannot have.

I open the suitcase and gaze at the cards. I think about how her hands have created them and imagine her tucking away an errant wisp of hair as she worked. I remember the evening she had spent at my flat in Bangalore. She had lied to her parents about an overnight trip from her college and come away with me. I remember how shy she had been when we first made love. I recall how I had assured her it was fine and when we made love again, how delighted she had been. I think about my arms around her tiny waist and how she had cuddled up to me and we had slept together naked. Next morning I had made coffee for her and watched her sleep so peacefully. I smile wryly at the memory of her opening her eyes, seeing me there and shrieking in horror when she realised the bedsheet had fallen off her, exposing her breasts. She had quickly pulled it up and covered herself. How much I had laughed at her shyness. She was beautiful, my Shruti. She was amazing. She was one of a kind. My perfect woman. I would truly have moved heaven and earth for her. I would have got her the moon had she asked for it.

Instead, she had walked away.